Roads Not Taken
by NakuruAngel
Summary: He tried to make it so simple: Dean was leaving, and it was for Sam's own good, and Sam would just not let him.


Title: Roads Not Taken

Author: NakuruAngel

Category/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest

Summary: He tried to make it so simple: Dean was leaving and it was for Sam's own good and Sam would just not let him.

Rating: T

Words: 9,023

Two things mattered to Dean at that moment: 1) It was pouring outside, and 2) Sam's forearm was touching his own forearm, there on the old wooden bar in the middle of a city that may as well have no name. In fact, as far as Dean could recall, the city _didn't _have a name, and if it did, it was certainly not important enough to wedge itself into his alcohol-sodden thoughts, and certainly not when Sam was right there touching his skin and it felt so much better to say Sam's name than the name of the city. Wasted as he was, he knew a few things for certain. One such thing was that Sam had not steered him toward the faltering exit sign even though there were hard sheets of rain obliterating the dirt road outside, and that was not normal because Dean knew that Sam wanted to be home and warm and safe, because that's always what Sam wanted because it was rarely what Sam got. Another thing that Dean found himself acutely aware of was that yes, in fact, they _should _leave this bar, and they should go back to the motel and sleep off the last few hours of the evening in blissful blackout dreams.

Dean knew these things because Sam didn't seem to.

Dean was best at knowing things that Sam didn't.

Focusing as hard as he could on the brunette next to him, bracing himself for the imminent lack of contact concerning their forearms, Dean said, "Sam."

And Sam, bless his heart, did not roll his eyes even once at the way Dean sort of slurred and distorted his name, and Dean was almost disappointed because he just loved when Sam reacted to him, move for move, chemical for chemical. He was sure he'd seen Sam down a few but his eyes were clear, unfocused, a mostly-sober man thinking about things that don't belong in dirty bars and nameless places and three inches from his brother—

Dean saw his eyes flicker, a light in an attic in the middle of nowhere and it was just for show, because when he looked at his brother Dean didn't see anyone home.

"Sammy, time to go, it's like a fucking dog outside," and Dean didn't think about what he'd said because he knew Sam could figure it out. Sam shook his head and tried to smile and tried to be jovial and drunk like Dean was, but it was raining outside and as far as Dean could see it was raining in his head too.

"Cats and dogs, Dean," he said, and Dean didn't understand until he supplemented this with, "It's raining cats and dogs." Dean would have rolled his eyes but that took effort, and although he was happy and numb he wasn't sure he wanted to expend the energy. Instead he took initiative in breaking apart the point that their skin was touching, standing and wavering and steadying himself only to run into someone and waver some more until Sam stood, sighing, and solidified Dean's connection with the ground. Sam was always doing that—steadying Dean, making sure Dean was firmly connected with reality.

Dean habitually forgot where they were and who they were and sometimes in the night this worried him, but Sam was always there, and this was a constant that Dean was thankful for after years without it.

Dean felt Sam's hands on his shoulders, warm and careful, and Dean didn't notice that they lingered a second longer than at all necessary. Dean was drunk, and Sam's hands mattered a lot to him anyway.

The bar was smoky, layers of dust and pollution stacked in the air like an army and Dean felt too hot to breathe it all in. Seeing no alternative, he sucked in a great, stinging, overloaded breath, focusing on Sam and on the exit sign and nothing else mattered to his tired, happy body. Sam turned around and grabbed Dean's wrist securely, tugging him onward less like a person pulls a drunk friend and more like a steam train pulls its cargo.

Sam wanted to go home and be warm, and Dean knew that and instinctually mirrored the impulse in his own nerves. Dean was hardwired to Sam like a personal circuit board, and Sam was Dean's own personal battery, keeping him up and moving, fueled almost solely by Sam's wants and Sam's needs, and it had always been so. For Dean not to run purely on Sam was such an unholy contradiction that no one in their long lives had ever suggested the possibility except perhaps Sam's college friends—Sam's smart, shiny, ignorant college friends—and only because they didn't know Dean, didn't know how his nervous system was wrapped around Sam's spinal cord instead of his own.

This habitual sacrifice of his own world for Sam's went back before he could remember. Dean had adored Sam when he was newly born, bald and hazel eyed and _so small._ According to his father, Dean had carried that baby everywhere a person _could_ carry a baby. Dean gave up the infant only after stern insistences by his mother, and many a photograph captured his toothy grin peeking over a blue blanketed bundle. His father encouraged this behavior with every fiber of his being—looking after Sam was Dean's job before Dean could tie his shoes, and, in fact, was more important than tying his shoes. Dean grew up adjusting his chemistry to suit Sam, making sure that he was the base to Sam's acid every time he got in a fight with their father, irritating Sam just enough to liven him up on any one of his darker days. By the time Sam was five years old Dean felt that he'd only been created as a supplement for his younger brother, and it had never bothered him even once.

Now he felt Sam looking after_ him,_ saw the exit sign becoming clearer and the rain getting louder, huge, howling bursts of wind every time anyone opened the door. Ten feet wide the floor was a soaking mess by the entrance, and Sam was squinting into nothing as they tried to locate the car, the downpour effectively obscuring their view of anything further than 4 yards away.

Sam did not let go of Dean's wrist.

Dean put this under the category of Things He Knew That Sam Didn't, because he was pretty sure Sam had forgotten about Dean momentarily.

Sam barely glanced at his brother before opening the heavy wooden door, but Dean knew exactly what was about to happen because he always knew what Sam meant when he didn't say anything, and his synapses responded by firing into a sequence along the lines of 'Time To Go' that Dean did not ignore. They bolted out of the bar.

The storm hit them like a brick wall, solid sheets of ice bombarding their faces and clothes and skin, and Dean thought for a second that Sam would release him in shock, but instead he tightened his grip. They would not be separated under such conditions.

Shouting over the forces around them was quite out of the question, but Dean picked up every muscle change in Sam's body that he could see and feel and they navigated smoothly through the dirt parking lot as Sam's eyes searched for the Impala, the two of them one perfectly built, Impala-searching machine for 39 seconds. Dean hated how perfect it was because Sam didn't even notice it. Sam was the leader and it was Dean who had to compensate for his actions.

Dean was the one who had to make room in his heart for Sam's ignorance—Dean had to know so that Sam did not have to.

They made it to the car a wet, muddy, freezing cold mess of hair and clothes that hung off them like lead. Dean was already too heavy, thoughts soaked through with alcohol, and for a second he had the crazy idea that if he gained a single gram of weight more he would break the earth.

He got into the long dark car and immediately groaned: he'd just gotten mud all over _everything._ Sam gave him a look that returned him violently to the fact that they had to get home and could not stay at the bar all night, and Dean sighed, defeated and dirty, and Sam put the key in the ignition.

The drive home was nothing if not wet. Dean hated the way his shoes felt like tiny marshlands, hated the way he could not feel the tips of his fingers as if they had been cut off in a tragic accident. He hated how he couldn't stop staring at Sam—Sam, with his not-really-white-anymore T-shirt clinging to his skin. Sam, with said skin slick and shining like he'd just been born, cold and glowing in the occasional orange light of a streetlamp. Sam, with his too-long hair too damp and too soft and too tempting, sticking to his forehead and neck and hanging in dark clumps about his eyes.

Dean focused his wasted mind on the road, which was also wet and shining but all he could do in the end was think about Sam's skin.

The neon motel lights were fuzzy and distorted through Dean's window through the rain. The whole place looked soggy, like you could punch a hole through the wall without really trying, and then the entire building would fall down. Without words they jumped out of the car and sprinted for the door, Sam with the key because he was the most sober person there and could get them indoors the fastest. His hand slipped on the handle but on the second try they were inside, slamming the door and ripping their icy clothes off almost in the same motion. Sam was in the bathroom before Dean could even consider his own bladder, heard the water turn on and thought what a great idea a hot shower was.

He hadn't really stopped to consider the fact that he would pass out before Sam was finished, lulled into sleep by the warm blankets and whoever's cotton shirt he'd pulled on—probably Sam's, based on the way the shoulders sagged and the hem fell past his hips.

Sam's clothes smelled exactly like Dean's, anyway.

Dean was not used to waking up in the middle of the night after an evening of drinking. Alcohol dulled Dean's senses and acted like the most convenient narcotic, putting him to sleep for no fewer than seven hours, and that was better than Dean usually got.

He was, however, used to waking up with strangers next to him. Sometimes they were gone before he opened his eyes, sometimes he was gone before they opened theirs, but this time, with his clock reading 3:30 a.m. to his bleary mind, he was awake and neither of them were leaving.

Dean's blunt senses were steadily being prodded by the feeling of skin and weight, and slowly he became aware that he had this person securely in his arms—although how they'd gotten there was too much a stretch for his brain two and a half hours before sunrise. He sucked in a deep breath, preparing to turn over and decipher last night's activities.

He stopped dead in his thoughts.

Whoever was in his arms did not smell like hairspray and perfume. They smelled like rain and cheap shampoo, and either this was the worst hooker he had ever brought home, or this was not a hooker at all.

He braced himself, muscles tensing in a way that shouldn't be allowed so late at night and so early in the morning.

He turned his heavy head and stopped breathing.

Dean had not woken up with Sam in his bed since they were twelve years old.

Sam had always had nightmares—it was just one of those unfortunate habits, like how Dean always put the empty cereal boxes back in the cupboard out of habit, or like how their father never quite learned to read when Sam had had enough. He never remembered the nightmares, could never tell Dean about them, but Dean hadn't cared as long as he was able to soothe his brother back to sleep. Sam did not have nightmares in Dean's bed.

On Sam's thirteenth birthday he'd had a bad one. He'd been crying and sweating and writhing, and Dean had woken up because Sam's discomfort made him sharp and alert even in sleep. He'd gone to Sam, as always, waking him up as gently as he could, ghosting his hands across his cheeks and forehead and smoothing down his hair and whispering to him. Dean was a pro at taking care of Sam.

Sam woke up in jerks and starts, as was typical, and stared wide-eyed at his brother, breathing fast and hard with adrenaline. Dean's hands didn't leave his face and Sam's own hands clasped weakly around his brother's wrists, needing to feel anchored and Dean understood. After a while Sam's breathing calmed and he stood, letting himself be lead to Dean's bed. They climbed in and drew up the covers, and Dean turned off his lamp.

Sam did not go to sleep.

Dean felt him in the bed beside him, heard his too-short breaths coming one after the other like the softest alarm clock, keeping Dean awake. Normally his brother fell asleep immediately, drained from night terrors. It concerned him, scratched at his Big Brother Senses until he rolled over to look at Sam in the dark and said his name.

"Sam."

For a moment there was nothing and Dean wondered if somehow his nerves were wrong, that Sam was really asleep. But then Sam turned over and even in the tiny red light provided by his clock he saw that Sam's eyes were stretched wide with curiosity and concern. He felt Sam touch his arm earnestly and wondered briefly what could be going through his head.

"Hey, what's wrong Sammy?" Dean's voice had a slight tremor to it. Sam did not miss it because he was one sharp little kid, Dean knew that.

"Why do we sleep in the same bed when I'm afraid?" His voice was innocent but suspicious—of what, Dean could not yet discern and would not quite see until years later, when Dean had all the time and highway he could ever want to think about Sam.

"Because," Dean said, "you're my baby brother, and I gotta protect you." He gave him something that was maybe a grin in the not-light of the alarm clock and hoped that would suffice.

It didn't.

"Dean, none of my friends ever sleep in their brother's beds."

Dean often missed how smart Sam had gotten so fast, his 13-year-old mind picking up social norms and their contrasts faster than Dean could inform him himself. Sam could not possibly understand at that age what kind of implication his words had just made, but Dean could and did and knew that he couldn't let Sam keep suspecting something was wrong, because nothing was wrong. It was Dean's own carelessness that brought this scenario about, and Dean hadn't even thought about how weird it would end up being—he'd just done what he thought was best for Sam, as he always did.

"Well, you're not a little kid anymore," Dean said, although of course Sam was little. He was tiny. He was soft and vulnerable and Dean had to take care of him, and maybe this was how he'd have to do that from now on. "If you want me to just bring you a glass of milk or something that's cool. You're big enough not to need this." And that was true.

Back then Dean had not caught on to his own feelings yet because Sam was too young to think about in association with any other feeling but protection. Dean had stopped inviting Sam to share his tiny bed and instead brought him something to drink, oreos if the nightmare was a particularly bad one. As always, Dean had adjusted for Sam, changed for Sam. Sam would not stop asking questions but he would stop asking about their relationship, and Dean was thankful for small miracles even if he couldn't appreciate this until much much later.

Now Dean found himself curiously without breath, tense and weary and confused but not really, because Dean knew Sam better than Dean knew himself and he should have seen this coming.

_And avoided it,_ part of his brain would not stop saying, and he couldn't bring himself to shut this part down.

The night was cold and it had stopped raining, and Sam's skin made Dean's tingle, his arm flush against his brother's side where Sam's shirt had hiked up, Sam's arm slung across Dean's chest, hand brushing his neck. Dean's skin wouldn't stop moving, felt like it would just get up and take off in a rush of bodily mutiny. God forbid Dean stay put just then and he couldn't help trying to get loose of his baby brother's too-tall grasp.

It was an unsuccessful venture, and although Dean was suddenly more uncomfortable than he'd ever been in his life, he was hoping Sam wouldn't wake up. He didn't want this to happen—not now, not ever, not to Sam. Dean could be fucked up and disgusting with anyone but him, and a very tiny part of his brain tried to point out how silly that was. He didn't let it get very far.

Sam stirred and Dean tensed, again, sure that if he got any more tense his skin would rip in fifteen hundred places and he'd never be the same. Sam's movement caused his shirt to ride up further and Dean did not appreciate the new wave of warm tingling the added patch of exposed skin brought to Dean's stomach.

He had never been so torn: he wanted simultaneously to rip Sam's shirt down and also to rip it off entirely. He was sure implosion was not far in his future.

Sam finally opened his eyes, making a tired, satisfied type of sound, the kind Dean remembered that made Sam seem fifteen again in his head and that was just the last straw. He jerked away from him, catapulting himself to the other side of the bed, half-sitting-up now and staring wide-eyed at a shocked and half-blurry Sam.

"Sam," he choked out, voice thick with sleep and booze and hard with surprise. "Something wrong with your bed?" He never failed to surprise himself with his own reactions—it was as constant as how unsurprised he always was with Sam's and this was unforgivable.

Sam's eyes were skittish, mouth set in a terrified line—for a moment he was a kid again, caught sneaking a look at Dean's porno magazines on a Saturday night, more ashamed and embarrassed than actually sorry and that was how he always was. It jolted Dean on the inside of his being, how unchanged things were in the middle of all this changing.

"Sorry, man, 'm sorry," Sam said, same as always, not sorry at all except for maybe spooking Dean. "I had a nightmare," and this was with a low voice, maybe some shame but Dean couldn't tell without seeing Sam's face clearly.

It took him a second to process this, but when he did his decided reaction was surprised.

"Dude, we haven't shared a bed because of a nightmare in _years_," Dean pointed out, and he was still scared, more scared than Sam could ever be because Dean knew why their limbs tangled when they slept and Sam did not.

Sam's eyes shifted guiltily and Dean hit a brick wall in his head and heart and gut. Dean was the best at deciphering the implications Sam's movements made and sometimes he wished he wasn't.

"This isn't the first time," he said unnecessarily, shock coloring his whispered tone. Sam did not move or breathe or blink or think, probably, and Dean was glad because what would he do if Sam decided to just then?

Instead Dean asked, "How often?" and got no reply, not for a while. Sam was still busy not doing anything.

Finally he let out a heavy breath, resigned, knowing this was probably the last time he'd be in a bed with his brother ever again.

"Every time."

Dean choked on his own oxygen, trying to figure out how Sam had made his way into Dean's motel bed _every single time_ he'd had a nightmare and him not notice it. He refused to believe that his internal Sam Circuit Board had just decided to let him sleep when Sam needed him, and the more he thought the more he was sure that it did so because Sam needed him not to know.

"Fuck."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't say that," came out of Dean's mouth before he could think—a reaction, an instinct, tailored to fit Sam as everything was. After a thought, however, Dean meant it—it was alright. For one night.

As soon as he let that thought register, he knew he was wrong, and that one came like a house landing on his head. This would not be one night—this would multiply into a thousand nights and Dean would not be able to handle it.

Dean would not be able to protect Sam.

"Just go back to sleep, Sammy," he said tiredly, and Sam stared at him for a second.

"Just like that? You're not _pissed?_" he asked incredulously, and Dean just gave him a look that said, 'Hangover. Sleep. 3:30 a.m.' And after that Sam was quiet, settling back down doubtfully into his side of the bed, the space between them feeling like miles on a highway between points A and B.

Dean would not travel that distance.

The next morning Dean woke up without Sam. His brother was the first thing on his mind before he could even remember why, and he was saying his name before his eyes were open.

No answer, and Dean sat up. Their motel was as cheap and ugly as the night before, maybe uglier since Dean had been drunk the night before. Even the sunshine pouring through the dirty window looked used. Dean thought idly that this was because Sam was gone.

He looked around. Instincts correct as usual, Sam _was_ gone, his bag open and his toiletries bag sitting on the sink in the bathroom with the door open, a testimonial to Dean's loneliness.

He stood, shook it off, knowing Sam would be back soon and wondering what exactly he was going to do about that. He began undressing, forgetting until he got into the shower that the shirt he'd worn last night was Sam's. He scrubbed himself harder with the bar of soap as if he could get the word 'incest' out of his skin just by being diligent. The shower was too cold so he turned it up, hotter and hotter until his skin was red and angry and he couldn't feel half his nerve endings. Then he turned it off, got out of the shower, and stared at himself long and hard in the mirror.

You have to, he told himself. You have to.

Staying with Sam was not an option, although every atom screamed in protest at the thought of being separated. If Dean stayed, he would do something awful, something irreversible. If he left, he could spare Sam this in exchange for being alone. Fact was, Dean had to remove any threat to his baby brother –fact was, Dean was the biggest threat in the world.

They were moving on now, driving at high speeds across black asphalt, the hot smell of highway hitting Dean in the face through the open window. Dean was unsure whether the game was 'Pretend It Didn't Happen' or 'Be At Ease Because This Brings Us To Some New Unexplored Level.' He didn't like either one—correction, he didn't like Sam playing either one. Sam's face was not the bored expression usually present on long drives. It was serene, bright, content, hopeful—it was all the things Dean was going to crush in less than twenty-four hours because it was for Sam's own good, dammit, and stop trying to convince him of anything else.

Dean was having trouble focusing even though everything he loved about driving was present—Sam, endless miles of black road, hot hot sun and a cool car and wind and music, and he couldn't even enjoy it because he was busy making a life-changing decision that he couldn't deal with.

Awesome.

The drive was jittery—Sam seemed not to notice how upset Dean was. The elder Winchester's knee was moving up and down without break, his fingers tapping nervously and out of rhythm on the steering wheel. He couldn't stop thinking about the last thing he wanted to think about and it was all because Sam was too lovely there in the seat beside him, a smile tugging on his lips every now and then like a reminder—_'This isn't over, this isn't over.'_

300 miles to the next gas station and Dean pulled over on the bare shoulder of the road, opened his door, and was violently sick on the nameless earth somewhere in southern Colorado. He heard Sam saying his name frantically, worried, concerned, all other synonyms of the word and Dean couldn't look at him.

He wiped his mouth and took a drink from his water bottle, spitting it out. The door shut and he was alone and there was Sam.

"Dude, are you _hearing _me? Are you _okay?_" he asked, a very real and very scary tremor in the undercurrent of his voice. "_Dean!_"

And finally Dean looked at him, all green eyes and cool demeanor, and he twisted his lips into the worst smile Sam has ever seen and replied, "I'm fine, man, too much diner food and some car sickness I guess."

Dean was never one for lying to his own blood.

After that Sam's bliss deteriorated rapidly, gone without a trace except the concern that lurked behind his eyes like a criminal. Dean knew he was freaking Sam out—since when did he get carsick? Since when was there such a thing as 'too much diner food?' He was just trying to get to tonight. He knew he was being reckless, somehow, but he also knew that if he stayed, after last night, he would do something worse than reckless and Sam was the priority here, not his own urges or love or whatever this was.

He had never been so happy to see a Motel room except for maybe when he was 19 and Sam was 15 and Sam had gotten a huge cut across his chest that needed stitches. The neon was burning edges into Dean's mind and Sam was no help, staring at him with narrow eyes that singed his very being.

"One room, two queens," he said wearily to the man at the counter, and the man nodded and typed something into his computer. It was past nine and he had been driving all day because that's what he does best, and when Sam asked where they were going all he could say was, "We're just going."

The man looked up and said, "Sorry, sir, we only have rooms with one king left."

Dean wanted to punch him. His internal organs had just liquefied in a burst of frustration and desperation. Couldn't he see how important it was that no opportunity for stupidity was given to Dean? Didn't he understand that Dean was on edge and dangerous to Sam and Sam, beautiful Sam, should never have to endure what he would do to him? How could this stranger not get it, not see it in all of Dean's movements and in his eyes and in the way he moved like a programmed magnet around Sam?

He looked back at Sam. Sam shrugged his consent, because Sam did not understand.

Dean understood for that exact reason.

He turned to the man working the counter and nodded curtly, "Fine."

With the key and their bags in hand, they found their room and walked inside, Sam's eyes coals in the back of Dean's head. He threw his duffel bag down on the bed and dug out a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt before bolting to the bathroom, locking the door and turning on the shower before Sam could ask any of the questions his mouth had opened for.

Over the water he heard Sam curse violently. He drowned out his voice with hot, hot water over his ears and face and chest, hurting him less than he probably deserved.

When he got out of the shower Sam was sitting on the bed cross-legged, looking so cute in his pajamas and with that put-off, angry look on his face that Dean had to grin, and had to stare because this was the last time he'd see it and surely he was at least a little entitled, giving the number of times he'd saved that lovely face.

"Dean, _what?_" he snapped, staring straight back at Dean like he had nothing to lose, and once again, Dean thought, he didn't know how wrong he was.

"_Nothing, _little brother," he responded cheerfully, even as the words 'little brother' engraved themselves into his skull by sheer force of will. Sam was still glaring at him, dark eyes daggers as Dean threw his dirty clothes into his bag haphazardly, missing as many articles of clothing as he got in.

"_Dean_," he said darkly, as if there would be no denying him, as if by sounding dangerous Dean would do whatever it was Sam seemed to want at that moment. Well, Dean had news for him: he wasn't an angsty teenager anymore, and Dean was clearly much more dangerous than Sam was.

"C'mon, Sammy, we've been driving all day," Dean pointed out. "Either get some sleep or go to the bar and have some fun, don't just sit around like a freaking blob of _emo_." Dean said this as jokingly as he could, summoning all the humor residing in the dark, writhing pit of his stomach under Sam's gaze.

"Dean, what's _wrong_?"

Sam did not let things die because he didn't know how. He couldn't leave anything alone, and Dean thought idly that it was the reason he and Dad had fought so much.

"Nothing is wrong, Sam," Dean said, a sliver more serious now than he had been five seconds ago. He was lying and Sam knew it—Sam had nothing on Dean, not really, but when it came down to it Sam usually knew what Dean was talking about when he wasn't really talking about it. Dean knew what Sam was thinking just by being within a yard of him, but Sam picked up on all of the words Dean said wrong and formed them into things that made sense.

It was a shame, really, that what was going on in Dean's head and heart and stomach did not really make sense.

"Stop _lying,_" and Sam's voice was acidic, dripping into Dean's mind and effectively killing any other thought he'd had about false cheer. Dean never ever considered the truth to be the best way, as the business taught him, but he decided to pull a leaf out of the devil's book and use part of it.

"It's just…," he started, and sighed. Lying to Sam tore at him in wicked ways not unlike genocide. "I've been thinking a lot lately, and it's been a really bad day for that, you know? About dad and everything else, and, you know…some days are better than others, right? I'll be fine."

Dean watched Sam warily as his half-lie sunk in, erasing none of Sam's worry but a fair amount of the frustration and anger that had been brewing dangerously near the brim. Some of this morphed into sympathy and understanding and other things that Dean just didn't see very often, and he was about to choke on his own falsehood because it hurt so badly to hurt Sam. He felt every break in his own bones and every cut in his own veins and God help him if he didn't maim himself beyond recognition during this whole thing.

"Dean, I…I'm sorry," he said, and Dean hated to hear him say that. "I guess I just thought that, I dunno, you were upset at _me,_ and that was selfish and stupid and I, you know, I'm here if you wanna talk or something." Sam finished awkwardly, used to speaking his feelings but not used to responding to Dean's because it was always Dean who responded to him. Playing backwards was not usually part of their game, but Sam would take it because he owed Dean that much.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm just tired. Good night's sleep and all that," Dean responded halfheartedly, shoving his things off the bed. It wasn't very late but he didn't care, flopping down on the bed like dead weight and closing his eyes where he was. Dean did not toss and turn when he slept, God knew why, and had the uncanny ability to sleep anywhere in the world. He felt Sam's eyes on him, concerned the way Sam always seemed to be, but Sam was so much worse at taking care of Dean than Dean was at taking care of Sam and it was best to just accept it.

Sam turned off the light and Dean immediately felt half a degree colder, preparing for Sam's weight inches from his own. He was not disappointed, feeling Sam slip awkwardly into the bed, under the sheet with Dean so close and so far away. Dean could reach out and touch Sam, but he wouldn't—he made sure he wouldn't.

He felt Sam shift his weight once, twice, getting comfortable. Sam _did_ toss and turn in his sleep—endlessly, almost. He thrashed sometimes during nightmares, didn't get comfortable for hours and needing to shift and stir about until he was in a new position every few minutes. Sleeping with him had been unbearable in the past for Dean, but he got used to it eventually—altered his own habits for Sam's habits, probably moved around in his sleep to compensate for Sam's sprawling limbs.

Dean stared up at the ugly stucco ceiling, chipped and a disturbing shade of orange even in the pale moonlight sifting through the window shades. He lay like that forever, feeling Sam shifting endlessly beside him, only an arm's length away, knowing Sam could tell he wasn't sleeping but eventually becoming convinced that Sam was. He did not stop shifting, but he never did, except when he was faking and it almost hurt Dean to know this.

He waited another hour, forming misshapen faces in the cracks and dents and bends of the ceiling and wondering if this would break Sam like it would surely break him, hoping it wouldn't—praying, even, because what would he do if he ever found out he hurt Sam?

_Justify it,_ some part of him answered. _It's for his own good._ Dean could not quite believe this and his mind reflexively began playing Metallica, a defense mechanism he'd picked up in order to not think about the things he just needed to do. Just do, some things didn't merit mulling over.

It was time.

He slowly, slowly began to move, carefully adjusting his weight so that Sam wouldn't notice its absence until morning, when he woke up and reached out for Dean like he used to do and his fingers would only grab sheets and he would open his eyes, notice the lack of Dean's bag and Dean's face and Dean's skin and—

_Stop it,_ he told himself, because if he didn't stop he'd never leave.

He finally made it out of bed and set about packing, picking up clothes and making sure guns were in their place. Every single object he secured in his bag was a goodbye and fuck if he didn't know that, and it was painful to continue but he knew the worst was not over because it never was with him, never once in his whole life was the worst over.

He finished packing, zipping his bag as quietly as he could manage. Sam shifted periodically but did not wake up, although Dean had a thousand half-baked excuses in his head for that express purpose.

Dean found some hotel stationary and wrote a note—stupid blue-and-grey scenery and mountains and what did anyone care when they were saying goodbye to the only person they loved?—and put it on the table next to his wallet, which contained all his money and working credit cards because one thing he did not want was Sam starving and cold on the streets in his absence. He gazed at the objects, at the tearfully scrawled note, one last final farewell to a sin he just couldn't manage to impose on his brother, and it hit him: This was it.

Dean was going to leave Sam.

And maybe it was hasty and maybe he hadn't thought it out as much as he should have, but if he let himself do that he might stay and _God forbid_ he stay long enough to hurt Sam. The kind of damage he had in mind was too permanent, too tempting, and he couldn't let it happen and he knew that he was the sole obstacle between Sam and irreversible moral ruin.

Dean would ruin _himself_ in order to watch out for Sam.

He opened the door, cold after-rain atmosphere sinking into his bones immediately, and he stepped out, taking one last look at Sam's sleeping figure through the dark.

Dean would be a martyr, one last self-destructive sacrifice to obey the ultimate order: _Look after your brother._

And he would.

Sam shivered, unusually cold for the electric dream he was having about Dean's mouth. He clung to the warmth but it was slipping rapidly, dropping Sam flat on his ass in some cheap motel in a too-big bed and a rush of bitter air. He blinked and shifted groggily, disappointed sorely about the lack of heat and lack of Dean's skin on his skin. He rolled over, hoping to get close enough to Dean to touch him but not so much to entitle ridicule or suspicion.

He did not, however, feel a body next to him.

He propped himself up, eyes darting to the other side of the bed where Dean was certainly not. Sam's breath hitched, panicking mostly on instinct because he hated to wake up alone, not on any logic because Dean was probably in the bathroom.

Probably, except that the bathroom door was agape and no one was home.

Now Sam was entitled to panic. Some small part of him still had his Stanford Cap on and he glanced at the windows, jumping out of bed because they were obviously shut and the room was warm now but it hadn't been a few seconds ago. A few seconds ago Sam's toes had curled, breathed on by an icy burst of air that was either something dead or a door opening, and Sam honestly was willing to bet on either.

He glanced around the room wildly and it was really a miracle of training that Sam managed to notice how Dean's bags were gone, and the odds of something dead causing the chill dropped to sub-zero. His eyes fell on the table and his breath caught halfway between his lungs and his throat and he felt like he was standing in an icebox.

_I know you won't trust me but I'm still just watching out for you._

_ Love you, Sammy._

_ -Dean_

Sam's throat fell into his stomach fell into his kneecaps as he read the note and glanced at the wallet.

Dean was serious, and Dean was wrong.

Sam's mind was reeling as he plunged into the nighttime bite of cold.

Dean was sitting in the Impala because he didn't have the heart to leave yet and needed the confidence of the strong black car under his fingers to get him going. He had just gotten in, hadn't even turned it on yet and certainly did not see the younger Winchester appear out of nowhere next to his open window.

"Dean," Sam said, and Dean jumped violently, staring terror-stricken as his brother opened his door. "Dean."

Sam's fingers were in his shirt and he was pulling him out of his own car, damn it, slammed him against the side. Sam was _enraged_, eyes burning embers that warmed him to his core. Dean was going to cry except that he just wasn't the type and Sam's eyes dug into him like spade, pointed and precise and uncompromising.

"Sam." Dean could hardly understand that Sam had realized he was leaving—he'd been so careful, hadn't he? Where had he fucked up? Why couldn't Sam understand that it was just for him, like everything else Dean ever did?

Saying his name seemed to make Sam even angrier. His eyes darkened with rage and his mouth was nonexistent, pursed tight with the strain of resistance—resistance to what? Dean wondered about this but didn't have time to come to a conclusion because Sam was talking now, low and dangerous.

"So you were just gonna _leave me_? Dean I know you're a lot of things but heartless isn't one of them," he said and Dean didn't have time to explain because he was talking again, voice a deadly tremor in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. "Did you even fucking _think_ about what that would do to me, Dean? Did you _care?_" And Dean felt so bad already that he almost missed Sam say, "Because it would've been the end of me," soft and low like it wasn't for anyone to hear and yet Dean heard it. He felt suddenly that he was always intruding on Sam like that, on things that weren't his but that he wanted so bad it hurt.

"Sam, it's not like that," he tried, voice strained, but Sam would have none of it.

"Not like _what,_ Dean? Enlighten me, because I was under the impression you were just gonna ditch me out here in the middle of nowhere, as if you aren't the only goddamn thing I have left in my whole life." Sam pressed on him, hard, all angles and tense muscles and fight-or-flight reflexes. Dean would have moved to make room for him but there was a car door handle pressing into his back and bruising his flesh and he found that he couldn't, really.

"It was for your own good," he tried again, sounding feebler by the moment because with Sam so close and gorgeous he couldn't quite form real thoughts anymore, a solid plane of heat in every crevice of his body.

"Dean," Sam said like he couldn't believe it, like it was so ridiculous that Dean would ever leave 'for his own good,' and he said, "you _are_ my good. You're my best, and, if you don't want to be, that's okay, I won't be mad or anything, it's just…I don't' know what to do without waking up to see you every day." Sam whispered this last part and Dean could tell he was scared—not sorry though, never sorry. Sam meant every move and word and he always did and Dean loved it most of the time.

"Sammy, you don't mean that," and this was a reflex, but Dean's resolve was going quickly with those last words, and he thought insanely that they would be the last words he would ever hear because having Sam this close would surely break his eardrums, never mind his heart or his ribs.

"I do," Sam insisted, and he was now flush against Dean, fitting against him like they were built as a set and Dean did not doubt it. "I mean it Dean, I would go crazy, I'd be eating myself up and I just can't do it." Sam whispered this and his breath ghosted flightily across Dean's cheekbones, there and gone but not really, the afterlife of Sam remaining in the jittery feeling of his skin. Sam's fingers had been knotted in Dean's shirt but now they were roaming his chest, eating away steadily at the older brother's control but there was still a storm under his skin that screamed _DON'T! DON'T!_ and Dean found it hard not to hear it.

"Sam," he breathed, and his voice sounded used, second-hand but Sam paused at the urgency. "Sam, don't do this, you don't want this—" but Sam laughed eerily, interrupting him.

"You think I don't _want_ this? This is all I've wanted for longer than you could even guess." Even so, he was hesitating. Dean had this ridiculous urge to kiss him but that would simply not do, that was not alright and this was his own brother—

"I won't, though, you know. Unless you want it. I just…I dunno, you try so hard to protect me and at times like this I hate it, but I…this isn't something I want to push. I just want it to happen," Sam said, drawing back slightly so that he and Sam almost had separate breathing air—but not quite.

Dean was _blushing, _he could feel the heat in his face and temple and he must look like a damn schoolgirl but he couldn't help it, this could not be happening to him but he was sure now.

"Sam, this is wrong," he said, but it was more of a warning than a protest, a precaution, a test even. Sam shook his head.

"I've known that forever, Dean. This isn't about wrong," and his eyes were pleading and his voice was hopeful. Dean frowned because he knew exactly where this was going.

"It won't work," and this was Dean's final attempt because he was about through with the talking thing and the bright red alarm in his mind was dimming with Sam's proximity and words and it was all _so much._

"Dean," Sam said, dead serious and looking nowhere but his brother's too-green eyes. "It'll work." Dean looked like he was about to protest but Sam continued, "This isn't just some dumb lust hunt—you know it isn't. I know it isn't. This is old news, Dean, and it's more than anything we've ever done or said or felt." Dean felt overwhelmed and hot in the cold night like a fever, and said the only thing he could think of in that moment.

"I love you, Sam," and it was not a confession so much as a desperate plea for Sam to understand how destructive it all was, how it was not safe for the younger one, how fucked up it was. But Sam understood already, and Sam knew.

"_I love you_," he mirrored but behind it was so much passion and heat and energy that Dean couldn't _not_ believe him, taking in his eyes like a drink and drowning in the buzz it brought.

Sam did not wait for Dean to give him a further signal. He smashed his lips against Dean's, hard and painful and perfect like a puzzle piece, knowing that he would never kiss a single other person as long as he lived, even if Dean left tomorrow. But he knew he wouldn't, because Dean's fingers flew to Sam's hair, tangling and pulling like an undeniable force which Sam was pleased to comply with. He let his hands drift hotly down Dean's chest, settling on his waist for about two seconds before jerking into motion again. He slid two fingers under Dean's shirt and his skin felt like fire, all goosebumps and nerves and anticipation. His other hand hooked into Dean's belt loop, tugging on his jeans. Dean made a low sound in his throat and Sam almost died, swiping his hot tongue against his brother's lip.

Dean's hands were all over Sam's neck and collar bones and hair and face. He wanted to build Sam into his muscle memory, could not get enough skin on his skin and almost moaned when Sam's tongue slipped into his mouth. He was already harder than he'd ever been at this stage and all Sam had done was kiss him, but he didn't stop to consider how fucked up that was.

He broke away after some effort, and Sam's eyes were almost black with arousal.

"Bed," Dean managed, because if he didn't say it now he never would and they'd be in trouble for indecent exposure with a pair of hard-ons that no one wanted to explain.

They struggled back to the room and collapsed on the bed, all limbs and sweat and heat and Sam on top of Dean, biting and kissing and leaving marks all over the place because he couldn't get enough of what he looked like on Dean's skin. Dean was making noises he never legitimately made with women, and Sam was just eating it up, pulling Dean's shirt off and following it swiftly with his own. Dean had seen Sam shirtless a thousand times but suddenly it was like the first, new and unexplored and Dean had his hands all over him, relishing the feeling of memorizing his spine and shoulder blades and hips. Sam's lips were lower and lower and _lower _and Dean thought that if they went any lower he would _cry_ and there they were, exactly where he wanted them.

His breath hitched as Sam removed his jeans and boxers and he should have been embarrassed, maybe, but then Sam's lips were on him in all the right ways and he just _couldn't _be.

They fell asleep in the best afterglow Dean had ever felt. Sam was laying halfway on top of him and he fit so perfectly in Dean's side that he was sure this was how they should have been sleeping _every_ night. Dean's hands wrapped tight around Sam's waist and he would sooner die than let go, breathing in everything that was Sam and noticing triumphantly that Sam was still all night long, content to lay with his brother even in sleep.

Dean couldn't remember a better night's sleep. He woke up at 10:13 a.m. with Sam in his mind and he didn't even panic when Sam wasn't beside him where he should be, because this was not a one-night stand, this was Sam.

His bag was at the foot of their bed and the bathroom was still steamy from his shower and just like that, he was gone. Just like normal and it was a dull delight in Dean's chest because nothing had changed in the exact moment that everything had changed, last night on that king sized bed.

Dean got up and put pants on, leaving off his shirt because it had warmed up considerably and he loved a hot day after a rainy night. He almost thought something cliché and philosophical but it just wasn't like him to think when he could be doing some useful simple function like brushing his teeth. He had never really tried to brush his teeth while grinning like an idiot and it proved to be a challenge. But, in classic Dean fashion, he soldiered through until he was sure Sam would consider him to be hygienic.

He walked out of the bathroom and happened to notice his note on the ground—likely where Sam left it the night before after reading it and panicking. He picked it up and smiled because sometimes he was proud of his mistakes, especially ones that got him into his brother's pants and there was no longer a reason for him to doubt that very wrong and very fantastic thought.

He threw the note away. He could say he loved Sam every day now if he wanted to, no more worrying about what Sam thought or how much he saw or how transparent Dean was being because he should know that he was the only thing in Dean's entire existence that was worth writing love notes to.

Dean grinned wide, never feeling so damn sappy in his whole life, and the force of his smile felt like it would break his face when he heard the door click and felt Sam's presence at his back. Sam set something down on the table and Dean turned around, not even thinking about it as he wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

Soft and sweet and so un-Dean-like that Sam almost laughed, but it was just exactly right.

"Hey, you brought food! Thanks Sammy," he said as he was reaching for the greasy wrapped burgers. He took them and sat on the bed, reaching for the remote. Morning with Sam and turned on the TV and it was an infomercial, but what did Dean care when he had disgusting food and black coffee and Sam had just settled into the bed next to him? They ate in silence and watched the infomercial idly, wondering if it was really a great deal or if the advertised blender would break a week after arriving in the mail. When all that remained was hot coffee, Dean sighed contentedly and leaned into Sam, his bare shoulder pressed against Sam's clothed one simply because they wanted the contact.

"You know," Dean said, "this is probably the worst thing we've ever done."

Sam shook his head, amused, and drank his coffee—tea, Dean corrected himself, because Sam did not like coffee when tea was an option, and he never figured out if it was about taste or health. Last night they had just become so unhealthy that he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Feels pretty great, if it's the worst. Feels like the best, actually," Sam said, and fuck if Dean didn't agree with him.


End file.
